


The Locker Room

by LadyInTheSpanishRed



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Detective Roger, M/M, Mystery Relationship, Roger is a bit of a melt, Roger's POV, US Open 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 08:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13337358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyInTheSpanishRed/pseuds/LadyInTheSpanishRed
Summary: "Roger mentally wondered how best to tell Rafa to do his ‘business’ in the privacy of his own room, where he could be as loud and indiscreet as he wanted, and not in a public place, thank-you-very-much!!"Roger overhears something that he rather wishes he didn't in the locker room and sets about trying to find out the identity of Rafa's mystery man. Set during the US Open in 2010.





	The Locker Room

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted for more than three years so apologies if this is terrible! It's something I started a while ago and only just decided to publish so any feedback would be appreciated!!

Roger sighed as he entered the men’s locker room and unceremoniously dumped his tennis bag onto the bench. It was practically deserted except for a few items of gear strewn about and it was mercifully quiet. The only sound was running water coming from one of the showers.  
His first round match had been a routine, straight-set win over the Argentine, Brian Dabul. After his defeat last year to Dabul’s compatriot Del Porto in the final, it felt good to get one up over the South Americans.  
Federer had grinned sheepishly and waved to the Arthur Ashe crowd as he exited the court. His press conference had dragged on longer than he would have liked so he was thankful to be in the safety of the cool locker rooms.  
Tucking a stray curl of hair that had fallen across his face behind his ear, Roger unzipped his bag and began searching for a clean top. Looking around, the Swiss spotted Rafael Nadal’s bag on the opposite side of the room. His trainers, with their trademark black bull and the words “Vamos Rafa” embellished on the side, were lined up with Rafa’s rackets in the meticulous way that only Nadal could manage after a game or practice session. Federer chuckled to himself. He would describe himself as being a tidy person but doubted that he could ever have the patience that Rafa did to organise his own gear to the same level.  
As he pulled off his sweaty shirt (because even someone as perfect as Roger Federer gets all horrible and sweaty on occasion), Roger heard a low grunt coming from the showers…… followed by a long moan.  
He froze.  
Roger stayed as still as a statue, not wanting to draw any attention to himself. The moaning continued and, as it did, the realisation dawned on him that Rafa was not in the shower alone; there was more than one voice coming from the stall which meant there was someone else in there with him. And that someone was definitely male from the noises they were making.  
Roger had always known that Rafa was gay; not that the Spaniard had outrightly told him, but there was just something about him that meant all signs pointed to the fact that Rafa liked men. Like his obsessive tidiness. His immaculate appearance and dress sense. Or perhaps it was the fact that Roger had caught him staring at Feliciano Lopez’s arse, on numerous occasions.  
Not that he had a problem with Rafa being gay, oh no, he counted the Spaniard as one of his best friends (off the court, obviously) and he was in no way homophobic. But one had to draw a line when said friend was getting off in the shower with another guy whilst he was standing only a few feet away.  
Feeling his face slowly turning to a rosy shade of red, Roger decided to exit the facilities so as not to cause any more embarrassment to himself, or Rafa, if he was caught listening to this sexual act. He slowly and carefully pulled on a fresh shirt and packed away his things before silently hoisting his bag onto his shoulder.  
Before he left, however, the Swiss was struck by a feeling of curiosity. Who exactly was Rafa shagging? He couldn't make out a voice but Roger realised that the items of clothing on the floor that he had noticed when he first entered had been shed by Nadal and his mysterious lover in a frenzy of passion. He picked out Rafa’s shirt, very unusually for the Spaniard, left in a heap on the floor next to another shirt. It was a fairly simple design, black and white with no distinctive logo that Roger could make out, matching black shoes and white tennis bag Roger assumed was also part of the other man’s ensemble.  
It was clearly another player who Rafa was currently engaged with, although Federer couldn't quite work out from these few garments who it was.  
A sound from the other side of the first door into the changing rooms made Roger jump and he quickly pushed open the door to find himself face to face with Andy Murray who was trying to enter the locker room.  
‘Distract him!’ yelled a voice in Roger’s head. The last thing Rafa needed was for some else to walk in on him mid flow (though, the Swiss reasoned, doing it in the player’s changing room was hardly discreet!).  
“Murray!” Roger exclaimed, his voice lacking its usual composure, hoping that Nadal got the hint that he and his partner were no longer in private. “How was your game today?”  
The Scotsman looked perplexed at Roger’s bright enthusiasm (though the Swiss doubted that he would know the definition of the word if a dictionary hit him in the face). Nevertheless, Andy replied gruffly, “Oh, it was just a practice today. I don’t play ’til Wednesday.”  
Roger cursed inwardly. “Right!”- this could not be any more awkward- “Um, well, good luck for then.”  
He strolled past Murray, leaving him staring blankly at the Swiss’ retreating form before shaking his head as if to clear it. Just before the door closed behind him, he heard the showers turn off.  
As he strode of to find his wife, Roger mentally wondered how best to tell Rafa to do his ‘business’ in the privacy of his own room, where he could be as loud and indiscreet as he wanted, and not in a public place, thank-you-very-much!! Not a conversation he really felt like bringing up with one of his oldest friends. He would also need to do some more detective work to find out who indeed this mystery shower man was. 

 

Mirka was worried; Roger hadn't been himself recently, she’d noticed. This past week he’d been distant despite comfortably winning on court. She knew him better than anyone could easily tell that he’d been distracted by something but was glad that it was not affecting his game. It was, however, affecting her.  
They were currently eating breakfast in the hotel where the majority of the players stayed during the tournament and Roger had not touched his food. He was staring off into the distance, breaking off now and again to fix his glare on the passing players who were either still in the tournament or had stayed to practice.  
Mirka drummed her fingers on the table, trying to attract her husband’s attention and sighed dramatically when it elicited nothing.  
“Roger.” No response. “Roger…..Roger…..ROGER!”  
He started. If she hadn’t been annoyed with him, Mirka would have found the look on his face comical and a little endearing. But right now she was not best pleased.  
“What is the matter with you? You’ve been acting really strange since last week? What’s going on”  
“Oh, nothing”  
‘Helpful, Roger, really helpful,’ Mirka thought scathingly whilst rolling her eyes. She noticed him turn his attention away from her again and he began staring intently at Fernando Verdasco, specifically the Spaniard’s lower half.  
Mirka cleared her throat loudly. Roger turned back to face her, blushing slightly, and she raised one eyebrow.  
“No, Mirka, it’s not what you think!” Roger blurted out, “No, um, I was just- I mean, I wasn’t…”  
Mirka smirked, all annoyance at her husband now gone as she began to exploit his clear discomfort. “Checking out Verdasco’s arse?” she supplied with a grin.  
Roger glowered at her, still blushing furiously. “I wasn’t and you know that.”  
“I know, my love, I’m just teasing. Although, I wouldn't blame you if you were. But seriously, what’s going on?”  
Roger paused. He knew that his wife was perceptive and smart, qualities (along with copious others) that he had fallen in love with her for many years ago, but he didn't know how best to approach it. Fortunately, Mirka saved him.  
“Is it about Rafa?”  
Roger blinked in surprise. “What?”  
“I mean you were quite distant with him the other day on the practice courts and I noticed you blanked him earlier.”  
Obviously he had gravely underestimated her skills of perception.  
Roger sighed, his shoulders slumping, and buried his face in his hands. Without even looking, he could tell Mirka was smiling in satisfaction at having guessed correctly.  
“So what does Verdasco’s arse have to do with Rafa?” she asked. Federer looked up at the same time as her face registered a look of comprehension. “Oh….”  
“Yeah,” Roger murmured, confirming her suspicions. They had discussed Rafa’s sexuality before, it hadn't escaped Mirka’s powers of awareness that Rafa would be more interested in a relation with him than his wife, but Roger hadn't mentioned the previous week’s intrusion. “I think Rafa’s seeing someone on tour.”  
Mirka took a sip of water as she considered the information. “What makes you say that?”  
The Swiss reddened as his mind went back to the changing rooms. “ I, um,” he coughed, “may have heard certain, ah, things, you know….”  
Mirka nearly spat out the water as she snorted at her husband’s clear embarrassment. “Oh, Roger!” She laughed. “Wow, I bet that was uncomfortable!” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Is he vocal? I always imagined that he'd be very loud in bed!”  
Roger’s face was now the colour of a tomato as he spluttered, “I’m not going to answer that!”  
Mirka merely laughed harder.  
After a while, she composed herself and looked more serious. “What makes you think it’s someone on tour?”  
So, Roger explained the shower incident and the discarded clothes to which she nodded. “Which is why you were checking out Fernando, to see if those were his clothes?”  
“Yes, it would make sense as well as they’re both Spanish. All the Spanish guys seem to spend a lot of their time together.”  
Mirka looked doubtful. “Hm, he doesn't strike me as Rafa’s type, or gay for that matter.”  
Slightly aggrieved that he was no closer to discovering the truth, Roger had to agree. He’d have to do some more digging. Clearly, staring at half of the tour and their arses wasn't quite going to cut it.

However before he knew it, it was already semi-finals day, or rather night as the Swiss was to be playing in the evening match on Arthur Ashe Stadium. Roger had decided to focus all efforts into tennis at his wife’s insistence - “Rafa will tell you if he wants you to know” - but he knew that, secretly, she was burning with the same curiosity that he was.  
It didn't matter anyway now, the Swiss was just one win away from setting up a final with Rafa himself and the possibility of winning an unprecedented seventeenth Grand Slam title. All he had to do was get past Novak Djokovic.  
The sun had just begun to set as he readied himself for the match, going through his pre-match rituals and mentally picturing how to break down his Serbian opponent’s game. He had a good record against the Serb so far and his victory over Djokovic three years previously in the final of this very event gave him a sense of quiet confidence. Gradually, the noise of the anticipant crowd grew steadily louder and louder as they filled up the arena. The atmosphere was going to be electric, as always in America.  
Finally, Roger shouldered his bag and headed out to the tunnel to wait to be called out onto court.  
Djokovic was already there, bouncing up and down, his white tennis bag leant up against the wall. Roger tried not to look at the Serb’s actions, he didn’t like to see his counter part exerting nervous energy before a match as it tended to put him on edge, but he couldn't help take in Djokovic’s attire and admire his sponsor’s coordination; what could he say, he was a sucker for fashion and good taste! The Serb was rather smartly dressed all in monochrome and was sporting a black and white, collared shirt with a black strip running round the middle, black shorts and white trainers.  
Roger did a double take.  
No.  
No, this couldn't be happening.  
Absolutely not.  
He blinked, once, twice, but whatever he did, he couldn't not picture those same items of clothing on the floor of a particular locker room floor. Roger blushed. He’d finally found out the answer to the question that had been burning in his mind all tournament at possibly the wrong possible moment! Right as he was about to step out onto court with him.  
As if sensing Roger’s presence - his rosy face probably was radiating heat so strong that his opponent had felt it - Djokovic stopped jumping and turned to face Roger, smiling as he held his hand out in a sportsmanlike fashion.  
“Best of luck out there today, yeah.”  
The Swiss nodded and grimaced, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. “Um, yeah, same with you.”  
He swore he saw Novak notice his uneasy and smirk slightly as he turned back to his stretching. Roger cursed. This match wasn't going to end well. Suddenly, his name was called and Roger forced himself to regain some composure before he walked out to deafening applause.  
'At least Mirka is going to have a field day when she finds out,' he thought, grinning slightly at that. He waved to the crowd, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Rafa was sitting in Djokovic's box, applauding vigorously with the rest of the stadium.  
Glancing at his box, Roger caught Mirka's eye and she smirked back knowingly, gesturing slightly towards the Djokovic camp. He rolled his eyes, wondering if anything would ever get past his brilliant wife. He pulled out a racket from his bag, readying himself for the semi final match ahead, the memory of the locker rooms still etched in his mind.


End file.
